


Optical shift

by Cinderscream



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, I can't mcfreaking believe chica is in the tag as chica fischbach, also, but anyways, chica is a good pup, dark is a manipulative douche, insired by mark's story from fnac 3, jack wants to know stuff and things, lots of creative license taken here, mentions of bad horror movies, that's adorable, where he talks about his nightmares as a kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: Mark wishes he hadn't been so naive.(or the story of how Mark met dark)





	Optical shift

**Author's Note:**

> I'm constantly thirsty for Darkiplier lore and Mark's nightmare stories from Five Nights at Candy's 3 was fuel for massive inspiration (buh-bye writers and artist block lmao). So enjoy this little mind blurb ft Jack. I drew the comic version on my tumblr here: https//alcordraws.tumblr.com/post/159885124945/how-mark-met-dark-i-wrote-a-fic-version-to-go

Jack’s chilling at Mark’s house, on a visit from Ireland for a rare opportunity to hang out. It's late and they're hanging on the couch, some lame (and oddly hilarious) SYFY channel horror movie playing on the tv, the screeching violins of the soundtrack and the screams of the actors filling an otherwise comfortable silence. 

Mark’s curled up on one end of the couch, occasionally giggling when the cgi “cobradile” pops up and calls out who he bets is going to die next. Chica takes up the rest of the couch, paws tucked under her golden head and feathery tail wagging gently by Mark’s hip. Jack’s made himself comfortable on the smaller couch, legs stretched out to the armrest and a cold beer Mark isn't allowed to touch sits half finished on the floor by his dangling arm.

It's cozy and warm and Jack begins to feel drowsy by the time the heroine of the movie sacrifices herself by throwing herself into the monster’s mouth with dynamite strapped to her slender waist and blowing it up from the inside. It looks like the movie’s entire budget went into that last explosion and Jack chuckles along with Mark over how bad it was.

As the credits begin to roll, the temperature in the room dips, for just a second. Jack’s eyes catch on Mark, who shivers violently, figure literally flickering between gray, red, and blue before settling back to normal. Mark catches his eye and gives him a wan smile, his earlier cheerfulness fading.

“Sorry”, he says, apologetic, “ that was just Dark returning to his host body.”

Mark’s attempt at reassurance is belied by the sudden pallor in his complexion and the tightness around his eyes. Jack can't hold back his curiosity and before he can stop himself, he blurts,

“How did you meet him?”

The haunted look that enters Mark’s eyes makes Jack’s stomach clench and he immediately regrets asking. Chica, sensing the discomfort in the air, whines until Mark buries a hand on the thick fur of her neck.

“I suspect he'd been following me quite a while,” he begins, “but the first time I met him, I was fourteen.”

* * *

 

Mark’s eyes snap open, the images of his nightmare lingering on his eyelids, flashing at him whenever he tries to go back to sleep. There are shadows squirming on his ceiling and his need for sleep creeps away to be replaced with an acute feeling of unease. He slips out of bed and into the puddle of moonlight that emanates from his window, pads on silent, bare feet to his door and escapes into the hallway. 

It's silent and dark, unsurprising for the dead of night at the Fischbach home, though it doesn't help abate his growing anxiety. Mark creeps his way to the stairs, feeling both dazed and awake as he drifts to the last step. He settles at the bottom, a notebook and pen he'd snatched from his room before he left sitting on his lap. He glances up and his eyes catch on the thick, looming shadow in the archway that obscures his view of the next room. His heart beats just a little faster, but oddly enough, he does not feel afraid.

Time slithers by, but he doesn’t feel it, frozen on the bottom step, eyes glued to the shadow in the archway, pen idly scratching on the notebook on his lap. His breathing comes in even intervals as if he were asleep, but Mark is keenly aware that he is awake and dreams are the farthest thing from his mind. Mark’s eyes droop to his notebook and the lazy scrawl of his pen and feels his heart crawl into his throat.

It’s the shadow in the archway, form vaguely humanoid, a pair of circular, white eyes boring into his own brown ones from the confines of the lined paper. Mark doesn’t remember seeing eyes on the shadow. His sleepy trance melts away and his heart begins to titter like a rabbit in his chest. He tries to scramble back upstairs, maybe sneak into his brother’s room, but he freezes just as he stands.

The world around him bleeds into blacks and grays, objects highlighted with red and blue-green like some sort of bizarre 3-D movie that Mark wants no part of. His own hands look a pale shade of silver and lack the 3-D effect that engulfs the rest of the room. He isn’t sure how much that should comfort him. Mark looks up when something darker than the shadows falls over him and finds himself eye to chest with the shadow from the archway. It’s more humanoid now, tall and looming. The shadows melt away to reveal a man, silver-skinned and radiating the red-blue of the rest of the strange world. He looks familiar, with his mother’s eyes (a dark, cool red rather than her warm brown), her sharp cheekbones, but his father’s nose and jawline, a light shade of stubble keeping his face from looking too soft. His hair is short and shiny and black, falling in a feathery coal-black curtain over one of his eyes.

He’s wearing a suit, fancy-looking and gray, like heavy storm clouds. Everything about him seems to scream  _ refined _ and Mark suddenly feels very out of place in his large, old red shirt and black shorts. He tries to swallow back the lump in his throat to speak, wincing when his voice squeaks anyways.

“Who are you?”

The man regards him with disdainful eyes, as if he’d just noticed an insect squished on the the bottom of his shoe, his pale lips tightening into a sneer. Mark has too look away, unable to hold such an intense, cold stare. He feels too much like a specimen in a glass jar.

“You may call me Dark. I’ve been waiting a long to meet you”, he says and though his voice his silk soft and almost reassuring, it still reverberates through the room, like a distant roll of thunder that Mark can feel in his own chest. The man, Dark, clasps his long-fingered hands behind his back, leaving himself open, like he holds no secrets from Mark.

“What do you want?” Mark whispers, sounding even tinier in comparison to Dark’s overwhelming presence.

Dark steps closer, puts an elegant hand on Mark’s thin shoulder. He looks less dismissive now, might even look warm, if not for the seemingly perpetual ice of his deep red eyes.

“I can make the nightmares go away”, Dark murmurs, his thunder-like voice gentle. “You just have to let me in.”

Mark’s breath catches in his throat and his mind wanders to the nightmare he’d had the other night, his brother disappearing into the woods, the other horrid dreams that had plagued his nights for as long as he remembered. He can’t think clearly, there’s too much static in his head. Dark’s eyes soften, just an ounce, and Mark, scared and hopeful and naive, stupidly ( _ stupidly _ ) agrees. He reaches out and Dark takes his hand (and though at fourteen Mark isn’t exactly small, his hand is easily swallowed by Dark’s). His eyes are still soft, but his grip is anything but.

His hand is very, very cold. His smile is even colder.

Mark feels an ominous shiver crawl up his spine.

He should have known it was a lie.

* * *

 

Jack doesn’t know what to say when Mark finishes his story. Mark is staring at the hand buried in Chica’s fur, eyes distant, a murky shade of brown that doesn’t befit him at all. 

“I’m… sorry”, Jack says quietly, though it’s not quite what he wants to say and he’s frustrated that he can’t form the words to express his sentiment.

Mark smiles, faint but more reassuring than the first one. His eyes might just be the warmest shade of chocolate brown Jack has ever seen.

“It’s no big deal, not anymore at least. You get… used to it, I guess.”

Silence reigns once more, but it’s not awkward. It’s the same comfortable quietness from earlier. In their lapse of attention, the next movie had started, the scene displaying a lackluster cgi werewolf(?) munching on what could be a leg. They chuckle at it and the atmosphere lightens, the conversation slowly slipping away.

Mark’s shadows flickers, though no one sees it, before settling back into a normal solid gray. 


End file.
